


Kissogram for John Watson

by finnicks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Eleventh Doctor Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnicks/pseuds/finnicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has just come home from the war and is quite bored with his mundane life, until one day when he goes to the bank and meets a mysterious man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissogram for John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of crack!fic that I wrote for kicks a while ago... Enjoy!  
> Inspired by this gif: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrkv5o726U1qlo1kro1_500.gif

John Watson stared glumly out the coffee shop window, sipping his tea and trying to drag out another five minutes until he had to get up and leave. He didn’t have to be anywhere, and that was exactly it; he didn't have anywhere to go.  
He slightly dreaded the idea of going back to his flat; the dingy, cramped thing he had gotten on his meager army pension. He felt so cramped there, and it only reminded him of the nightmares that haunted him nightly.  
John rubbed his eyes, the lack of last night's sleep catching up to him. God, he needed sleep. And to get that he needed to get out of that damn flat.  
The idea came out of nowhere, he sat a bit straighter when he realised the simplicity of it. Bank. He was going to go to the bank. He was a retired war hero, wounded in action; they had to have some sort of loan deal he could figure out.  
Even if it didn't help, the bank was only a few streets away, it would give him something to do other than sit in the park and delay going back to the dreaded flat.  
–  
It didn't help. All the loans and deals for retired soldiers were full of loopholes and confusing clauses that made John wonder why anyone joined the army these days. He shrugged noncommittally to the clerk helping him in a small room off the main room, the clerk gave him an apologetic smile.  
“I can see you need some time to think these over, here's my number, call in a few days, okay?” The clerk stood and shook John's hand.  
“Right, thanks.” John said, gripping his cane—damn thing—and showing himself out of the small office.  
The bank was quite small, but not too busy. It was only 1:45 or so. John surveyed the room, contemplating what to do next. He could just leave, go back to the flat, try to write his “blog”. Something kept him there, though. There in that room. He looked around again, his eyes landing on a man, a police officer, standing in a corner not five feet away, staring straight at him.  
The man was tall, fair skinned with dark, curly hair that peeked out from under his police cap. Good looking, John noted, not that he usually noticed those sort of things, there was something about this man though, something familiar yet completely unknown.  
“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” The man asked in a velvety smooth voice. John hadn't realized he'd been holding the man's gaze this whole time.  
“Um, sorry, what?” John blinked, taken aback by the man's question. “Afghanistan, how did you--”  
“A game I play, when I'm stuck here. I can read people's lives from their appearances. Your haircut and the way you stand suggest military; you're tan but not above the wrists, so you've been abroad but not on holiday; you're limp's quite bad when you walk but you don't actively seek out a bench when you're standing around, like you've forgotten about it which means it's at least partially psychosomatic indicating that the original injury was traumatic, means wounded in action. Wounded in action, tan; Afghanistan or Iraq.” The man rattled it all off without even pausing once, looking and sounding quite bored the whole time. He smirked a little at John's open mouthed shock. “The name's Sherlock Holmes, and you, I presume, are Doctor John Watson.”  
John just stared for a moment before snapping back to reality and stammering,“That was brillia--”  
“Everybody down! I've got a gun, on the floor, now!” Everyone looked for the source of the shout. It was a man at the counter, young, scrawny, sandy hair with glasses. He held a gun in his shaking hands and was pointing at at the handful of people in the bank, swinging it around to reach John and Sherlock in the back.  
Christ, John thought sourly as he knelt down, a bit awkwardly due to his leg. “Well, Mr. Holmes, now would be a good time to call for some backup.” He shot a warning look towards the man beside him.  
“I'm not really the police,” hissed Sherlock, yanking the officer hat off his head as he slowly knelt to the floor beside John.  
“What?” John retorted, sounding bewildered and slightly panicked.  
The gunman was shouting something at the girl at the counter, she looked terrified but remained reasonably calm as she started withdrawing the money and putting it in bags.  
“I'm not the police, I can't phone for backup!” Sherlock's voice was terse, for a second he looked almost panicked, then he took a breath and composed himself again.  
“Well, why the bloody hell are you doing dressed up like that?” John almost shouted back at him. He had his hands behind his head for Christ's sake! He had just wanted to go to the bank and now here he was kneeling on the floor beside some psychopath who presumably enjoyed dressing up as a police officer.  
“I'm a kissogram,” the taller man snapped in answer.  
“A wha--, oh never mind.” John sighed, and looked back over at the counter where the gunman was anxiously telling the girl to hurry up. “I don't suppose that gun is real?” John whispered, turning towards the man in uniform beside him.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question, before answering. “No, pull the trigger and you've just got a fancy lighter.” He looked resentful. “Too bad I didn't bring my 22 today...”  
John rolled his eyes and muttered, “of course you have a real gun at home, I should have known...”  
He could see the corner of Sherlock's mouth turn up in a smirk. “I don't know what your plan is, Doctor Watson, but you might find it useful to know that the gunman has less than adequate vision, I believe he's shortsighted; he greatly favors his right leg over his left, I suspect a broken ankle that was never set properly; and look at him, he isn't the sort to rob a bank; also, judging by his face—anxiety, panic, slightly guilty—and the tremor in his right hand he isn't doing this of his own free will, he's being paid, or bribed which makes him more dangerous because now it isn't just money at stake, it's more, possibly his life. I'd be careful with him, if I were you.”  
John gaped at the man kneeling next to him, his eyes wide. He'd known about the limp, he was a doctor after all, but the rest of the deduction changed things completely. “That was... amazing.” He said quietly.  
Sherlock gave him a strange look, if John didn't know any better he'd say Sherlock looked surprised. Surprised and slightly pleased. “That's not what people normally sa--” He was cut off by a loud “No!”  
Everyone's eyes were drawn to the gunman, he was pulling at his hair, causing it to stick up in weird formations. His glasses were askew, he looked crazed, dangerous. “No, no, no, no, this isn't right!” He shouted and pointed the gun at the girl at the counter again with renewed anger. “Where is it, tell me where it is!”  
The girl's eyes were huge, “that's everything I swear!” she said in a shaky voice.  
“It's not!” He said angrily, “I know you're hiding it, tell me!”  
“She doesn't have it.” A cool voice said. It echoed through the bank. John looked beside him, Sherlock as gazing calmly at the gunman, almost daring him to react.  
“Shut up, just shut up 'fore I put a bullet in your head!” The gunman turned on Sherlock, pointing the gun at him, his eyes were wild.  
“I know he's making you do it.” Sherlock said calmly despite the shaking gun pointed at his head. “I think we should talk, I know what you're looking for. But first you have to let everyone else go.” His eyes were emotionless, John suddenly noticed how blue they were.  
The gunman's eyes went from panicked to confused to skeptical and finally to careful consideration. “All right copper, get 'em out. But not one word from there mouths about this. They go home. If any of your police mates come 'round we're going to have a problem. And she,” he motioned towards the girl at the counter, “she stays here.”  
Sherlock nodded once. Then, turning towards me, “Dr. Watson, if you'd be so kind as to escort these people out, make sure they all go home.”  
John nodded, confused by the sudden urge to stay and see what happened in the bank. “I thought you weren't a police officer,” he said to Sherlock.  
“I'm something close enough,” Sherlock replied tersely. Before standing and joining the gunman who pulled the girl into a room in the back.  
–  
Outside, John couldn't focus. It's been about thirty minutes, the other people from the bank had gone home already, thinking a police officer had control of the situation. But something was nagged at John's mind, something wasn't quite right...  
BANG  
John stood up suddenly, the gunshot had come from the back of the bank, he started running. He felt the solid weight of the revolver in his pocket, he'd gone home and fetched it. He'd had a feeling he would need it.  
Once he got to the back of the building he had to clamber up onto a dumpster to look into a small window. It was the wrong room, but through a wall of glass he could see the girl laying on the floor, blood pooling around her. The gunman was pointing his gun at Sherlock, he looked crazier than before, his red hair in disarray. He looked scared, angry, and was sweating profusely. Sherlock on the other hand looked completely unperturbed, calm even.  
–  
Sherlock Holmes didn't falter in the face of danger, in fact he almost enjoyed it. It was such a refreshing change from the tedium of everyday life.  
Even now, with a gun being pointed straight at his head by a clearly crazy man, Sherlock was still in control of himself. He tried not to smirk at the gunman.  
“I can tell everything about you,” Sherlock said calmly.  
“Shut up! Just shut up or you'll end up like her!” The gunman raged, he gestured towards the girl slumped in a corner with his free hand.  
“I know you don't want to do this,” Sherlock continued, unfazed. “Look at you, you're hardly the type of man to try to rob a bank. No wedding ring, so it's not for a wife. Probably not for kids either, you're too young. But ah, that tattoo on your wrist; “YSC”, a prominent gang in the area. You've tried covering it up with makeup, quite poorly I may add, an obvious sign that the gang is the reason you are here. You're trying to make it unnoticeable which makes it all the more obvious. So now the question is why, maybe you owe them money, maybe you made some trouble. Maybe they have someone you love.”  
The gunman's face went pale.  
“Ah, love it is, then.” Sherlock said watching the man's face carefully. “Now I know you're not here for money, that was a coverup. You're here for information, maybe files. Someone wants to erase their tracks, erase proof of their very existence maybe. Trying to go invisible...”  
“SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP.” The gunman swung his gun up to Sherlock's face. “You were told that, dammit, someone told you all that.” Then, the gunman's face changed, a manic glint lit his eyes and he looked at Sherlock with an air of finality. “You know too much for your own good, mister copper, now I'm afraid I'll have to kil--”  
He was cut off by a loud shot that broke the glass surrounding the room. He fell to the floor, blood spilling from his head.  
–  
An hour later Sherlock was sitting in the back of an ambulance with an orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Why have I got this on?” He asked the Detective Inspector who was asking him questions.  
“It's for shock, it's a shock blanket.” The Inspector replied patiently. “Now, Mr. Holmes, I'm Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to be asking you a few questions about what happened in there.”  
“I don't need this,” Sherlock snapped, standing up.  
Lestrade blocked his escape, holding up his hands. “Listen, I know you might not want to do this now, but we don't have anything on the gunman or the shooter so we need as much information as we can get. We've got nothing to go on”  
“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Sherlock said simply, looking the Inspector in the eyes.  
“What?” He asked, sounding confused.  
“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot like that over that distance from that sort of weapon, you're looking for a crack shot but not just a marksman, his hands musn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger so obviously has a strong moral principle. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel...” Sherlock stopped mid sentence when his eyes fell on the soldier from the bank. He was standing across the street, arms behind his back. “You know what? Ignore me, ignore everything I've just said.” Sherlock said, turning back towards the Inspector.  
“Sorry, wait, who are--” The Inspector looked confused.  
“I've just got to go finish a job,” Sherlock said, trying to get away.  
“Wait a minute I've still got questions for you!” Lestrade looked annoyed now, he crossed his arms over his chest.  
“Oh, what now, I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket!” Sherlock snapped, he gestured to the blanket on his shoulders.  
“Alright, but make sure you come down to Scotland Yard tomorrow,” Lestrade finally gave in. He sighed and walked away looking distracted.  
Sherlock threw the blanket into an open window of a police car. He stalked towards John Watson. “What did you do with it?” He said once he was close enough.  
“Oh, what? I heard about you in there, the dead girl, dreadful business, really dreadful... You shouldn't be dressed up like that, people get the wrong ideas. What did you say you were anyway?” John asked, looking entirely too innocent.  
“I'm a kissogram, I go to parties and I kiss people. It was this or a french waiter, which did you think I'd choose.” Sherlock said grumpily.  
John couldn't help but scoff a little. “Wait, you're a bloody genius but you go around as a kissogram? That's how you get your kicks, isn't it; risking your life to prove you're clever?”  
“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and would you like your message now? I almost forgot..”  
“Because you're an idiot,” John said. “And what message are you talking abo--” Before he could say anything else he was stopped but Sherlock swooping down and planting a kiss on his lips. He thought it would be worse, being kissed by a bloke, but it was surprisingly pleasant. Sherlock smelled good too, like some spicy soap and something like peppermint...  
“Some guy named Stamford said you could use some cheering up,” Sherlock said, straightening. “He also mentioned something about you needing new housing. I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we could afford it. If you're interested in that sort of thing.”  
John felt himself flush, he was still slightly woozy from the kiss, but he forced himself to focus. God, this day was turning out to be something. He felt better than he had in along time though, something about the adventure in Sherlock's eyes...  
“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, turning to start down the road.  
“Starving,” John said, hesitating only a moment before going to join the man who could deduce a person's whole life just by looking at them. He had a feeling he would get to know Sherlock very well in the next few months.


End file.
